Twisted Logic
by tinseltowns
Summary: Clare Edwards was a name that was straightforward and plain and to the point. It could mean any self-respecting hard-working church-going girl. It could be anyone in the world. But it wasn't just anyone.


**Disclaimer:** I don't own Degrassi, Clare Edwards, Eli Goldsworthy, and so on.

**A/N:** So, there's an amazing person here on and tumblr, known as summersetlights. Today happens to be her birthday, and I figured that I'd write her this little one shot, because every single one of her reviews is so incredibly sweet. I'm not sure how good this is, it's kind of disjointed and whatnot, but I hope you like it anyway.

_Happy Birthday, Lillie._

* * *

><p>Twisted Logic<p>

Her name was Clare Edwards.

Clare Edwards would've seemed like a simple name before he met her. Clare Edwards would've seemed like a common name, one that he could easily forget and one that he could overlook. Clare Edwards wasn't an interesting name, wasn't exciting or mysterious or alluring. It was straightforward and plain and to the point. It could mean any self-respecting hard-working church-going girl. It could be anyone in the world. But, you see, it wasn't just anyone. As soon as he saw her, and as soon as those eyes locked on his, Clare Edwards became interesting and mysterious and alluring. Clare Edwards became ocean blue eyes and honey curls and porcelain skin. Clare Edwards became a quick-witted, conservative, and genuine girl. Clare Edwards became everything.

Clare Edwards sat down behind him in English class in the second week of school, muttering something about how worried she was over her essay. He snorted, shaking his head and continuing to paint his nails with a Sharpie. Unseen to him, she narrowed her eyes at the back of his head, and sighed, sinking into her chair. Ms. Dawes came into the room, and began handing out the essays, making small excited comments or empathetic encouraging ones. Holding out the paper to him, she grinned, "Very nice work, Eli. I'm holding this as a standard for you." He took the stapled papers from her hand, and flipped through the pages carelessly. Small sentences and words of encouragement were scrawled onto the sides, arrows pointing to different lines and so on.

An exasperated sigh from behind hit his ears, and he closed his eyes in frustration. "Ms. Dawes, there must be a mistake. How did I get a C?" Clare Edwards asked. Eli pinched the bridge of his nose; just what he needed, another dedicated, straight-A student to complain about her grades. He didn't bother turning around, expecting it to be some stereotypical girl with glasses and acne and braces. "Well, your writing could've been better. It wasn't as strong as some of your other work," Dawes replied.

"I used complex sentence structure and advanced vocabulary."

_Gag_.

He rolled his eyes, removing the marker and continuing onto the next nail. "Yes, but what about emotion? Feeling? You can't hide behind Fortnight fanfiction forever." He scoffed, smirking; Fortnight? That Twilight rip-off book series that almost every girl in the school was obsessed with? This girl was becoming more and more naïve than he thought possible. "I'm not hiding," she countered softly. "Well, either way, your writing needs…a boost, someone to proofread and give suggestions. Meet your new writing partner." Dawes pointed to him, a small smile on her face. It took him a minute to realize who she was talking about. He raised his eyebrows, "Me?" Was she serious?

"Yes. You're writing's a little wordy, so you and Clare balance each other out." He pressed his lips to a line, eyes narrowing. "I think we have a fantastic partnership on our hands! Like Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes," she enthused. He sighed, blinking heavily in frustration. "Sylvia Plath killed herself." He smirked. A sense of humor. Or foreshadowing. Whatever, it wasn't like he was going to be her best friend or something. He stood up, grabbed his back off the back of the chair, and headed towards the door. A shoulder bumped into his, and his head whipped to the side to see who it was. The girl with the blue eyes. His heart stopped momentarily, and his mind began to race. A shocked look was painted on her face, which quickly turned into one of annoyance. He shook his head, laughing and walking ahead of her down the hall. "He is so…ugh!" reached his ears, and he laughed.

_This should be fun._

Three months. Just three months. That was all it took for Clare Edwards to take over his life. Three months, and he'd fallen head over heels for her. Three months, and all he could think about was getting to kiss her, wrap his arms around her, hide her away from everyone else so he could be the one to keep her forever. Three months, and now he couldn't go a day without wanting to hear the sound of her voice, or watch her move a stray piece of hair out of her face, or 'accidentally' brush his hand against her's. Three months, and he was completely dependent on her. Clare Edwards was all he could think about. Clare Edwards had kissed him a month before. Clare Edwards didn't run away from him when he told her about Julia. Clare Edwards was the only person on the planet that really understood him.

Clare Edwards owned his heart.

"Hiding from the Po-Po?" he whispered, smirking as she jumped. She nervously shook her head, clasping her hands together. "I'm just looking for a book." He wasn't buying it at all. She was far too nervous, and she had to be up to something. Clare Edwards clutched a book to her chest, glancing sideways at the school's front desk. "The stink bomb culprit, caught red handed?" he teased, raising an eyebrow. She sighed, a smile creeping across her face. "I knew it was you!" She blushed, her gaze lingering on him. "Someone had to stop Fitz from fighting Adam. One more minute, and he would've kicked Adam's butt," she defended teasingly. "Hey, I was the one he was gonna kill." He feigned a look of hurt, and Clare Edwards rolled her eyes.

Clare Edwards froze up as Mr. Simpson strode towards the doors of the library, eyes widening in panic. "Here he comes. He knows I did it…I'm going to get expelled!" She shoved the book back into the bookshelf, looking to him for any type of advice. _Smirk_. "Or you could let me handle it," he whispered, walking to confront the principle. "Sir," he began, "I think you should question Mark Fitzgerald about the stink bomb. Heard him bragging about it." He shrugged, watching as Simpson gave him a quizzical look. "Clare, is this true?" he asked, annoyed. "P-possibly." She bowed her head slightly, looking up at him through the veil of her hair. He nodded slowly, "Okay, I'll look into it."

He watched as the principal walked away, waiting until he was out of earshot to turn to her. "Mission accomplished," he said smugly. "If Fitz finds out?" Clare Edwards gave him a questioning glare, a smirk of her own on her delicate lips. "I'll handle it," he assured, taking another step towards her. She took a few steps backwards, her back pressed up against the bookshelf. "Now," he continued, "let's talk about how you're gonna thank me for throwing Simpson off your back." Clare Edwards raised her eyebrows, crossing her arms over her chest in that mock-angry way she had. He couldn't help but think how damn adorable she was. "What'd you have in mind?" she cooed. "Well, I don't know," he started. He leaned in, capturing her lips in the kiss he'd been waiting to give her for weeks. This time, it wasn't in front of a video camera for a school project.

It was real. This was real. They were real.

Biting gently onto her bottom lip, he lingered for a moment before pulling back, watching as she struggled to regain her breathing. He pressed his lips to a line, trying to come up with something to say. "I have a French exam," he blurted out, mentally cursing himself. "I-I…think you just passed it," she whispered. He smirked deviously, and turned around, walking out of the library. His fingers gently brushed his own lips, the taste of strawberry lip gloss still fresh. He smiled to himself, and realized just how in love with her he was.

And just like that, everything snapped. His whole world came down and crashed on him, crushed him into oblivion. The glint of the knife still taunted him in his dreams, the vicious grin on his perpetrator's face still haunting his memories. Flashes of jet-black hair, sickly pale skin, the headlights of a car. Piles of clothing and bins and boxes stacked around him, creating a fence from reality. His mind was falling apart, and he was destroying himself from the inside. It was all his fault, everything that was happening. He was just one big fuck-up. That's why Clare Edwards left him. That's why Clare Edwards, the girl whom he'd told he loved and held and kissed so many times had slipped away from him when he needed her the most. That's why Clare Edwards ran around with some football-type, giving each other pecks on the lips and making him sick to his stomach. That's why Clare Edwards turned around every time she saw him in the hallway, and went in the opposite direction because she was too scared that he'd try to strike up a conversation and win her back, and trap her again.

He hated himself. He loathed himself. He wished he was dead some days, just so the thoughts that were eating him alive could just stop. He wanted peace of mind, but the chances of that happening were zero to none. He wasn't meant to be happy; if he was, Clare Edwards would still be by his side, instead of having Imogen running around trailing after him, trying to force him to forget her. But that was impossible, and he wanted to tell her that straight to her face. It was impossible, completely and utterly impossible.

You can't forget a person like Clare Edwards.


End file.
